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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23861854">Bull in the Airport</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rathenon/pseuds/Rathenon'>Rathenon</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Tennis RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Developing Friendships, First Meetings, Gen, Implied Relationships, Kid Fic, M/M, Not Underage, Rivalry, fedal but only if you squint at the end, like that's just weird</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 22:28:51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,352</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23861854</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rathenon/pseuds/Rathenon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The summer he was thirteen, Roger met a lost Spanish brat at the airport.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Roger Federer &amp; Rafael Nadal, Roger Federer/Rafael Nadal</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>50</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Bull in the Airport</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>*rises from the dead*</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They still had more than a hour to go before their flight—Mama always made them leave the house ridiculously early—so Roger was out restlessly ambling around their flight terminal by himself. The airport had a large number of restaurants and newspaper stands and candy stores and bookstores and practically anything a young boy could think of, and Roger decided that if he was going to have to wait an hour to go <em>sit </em>on a plane, he was going to spend it exploring. </p><p>People were bustling all around him, some walking very fast and determinedly as if they were on an undisclosed sacred mission, others strolling and dawdling like they had all the time in the world and nowhere to spend it. Not for the first time, Roger felt grateful that he was a tall 13 year-old, and he couldn’t get swept up by the swelling crowd. </p><p>After all, he hated rubbing shoulders with other people. </p><p>He wove his way through the crowd, occasionally glancing up to look at the store names. <em>News Stand. Armani. Burger King. Sugarfina. Irish Pub. </em></p><p>None of them really interested him, so he kept walking along in this manner for quite some time. It was nice for a change, just letting his thoughts meander around to wherever they chose. Even if he didn’t have his mind set on a particular goal or anything, the world kept moving on around him, caught within its ceaseless flow. </p><p>And so, it was like this when he saw the crying boy. </p><p>He looked to be around eight years old, tan skin and dark eyes that were puffy and red. Tears flowed down his cheeks as he sobbed quietly next to a sales rack.</p><p>Roger half-thought about walking onwards and pretending that he hadn’t seen the boy so he could spare himself the trouble, but in the end, equal parts kindness and curiosity won out. He nudged his way around the crowd and went over to the boy. </p><p>“Hey.” He squatted down next to him, putting on what he hoped was a reassuring smile. </p><p>The boy stopped sniffling, startled, and turned his head to look at him. His gaze was somewhat nervous. </p><p>“I, uh…” Roger desperately fumbled for something to say. Comforting crying kids was not his strength. At all. He preferred tennis way more. You didn’t have to care about anyone’s emotions while you were on the court.</p><p>
  <em>Except your own. </em>
</p><p>“My name’s Roger,” he finally offered, lamely. “What’s yours?”</p><p>The boy bit his lip and furrowed his eyebrows. “No…….German,” the boy said in English, slowly and laboriously, the words reluctantly dragged out of his mouth in a thick accent that Roger surmised as Spanish. “Sorry.”</p><p><em>Damn. </em>“English then?” he asked, carefully switching languages.</p><p>To further his disappointment, the boy shook his head. “No English. Not good. Sorry, again. Ahh...<em>tu hablas espanol?</em>”</p><p>The words confirmed his suspicions. Of course the boy had to be Spanish. Not Swiss, or French, or even American or British. Spanish. A language that he had absolutely no idea about. </p><p>He shook his head at the boy. “No.”</p><p>The boy’s shoulders drooped. “Sorry,” he repeated.</p><p>Alright. Roger mentally calmed himself. So there was a language barrier, but it was still easy enough for him to guess at what the situation was. </p><p>"You're missing your parents?" he guessed.</p><p>The boy stared at him blankly.</p><p>This was going to be harder than he thought. "Uh, parents." He gestured above his head, mimicking an imaginary person taller than either of them. "They're missing?" </p><p>A sign of understanding dawned onto the boy's face, and he nodded quickly.</p><p>Roger smiled in relief at him. "It's alright. That's easy enough to fix. Here, let's, uh, walk over to the one of the gate attendant desks, and they can announce it over the speaker system. Your parents are probably worried as fuck."</p><p>The boy frowned, big brown eyes shining in confusion. "As...fuck?" </p><p>"Er, no," said Roger. Of all the words he'd said, of <em>course</em> that was the one the kid had chosen to pick up. "As <em>heck. </em>Worried as <em>heck.</em>"</p><p>"Oh," said the boy, nodding again in affirmation. His tears were dry now. "Worried as fuck."</p><p>"No!" He was definitely not teaching a stranded eight year old Spanish boy how to swear in English in the middle of the airport. "Heck. Say it with me. Heck."</p><p>"Fuck," said the boy, grinning at him. Rather belatedly, Roger realized that by emphasizing that the behavior was undesirable, he'd actually made it absolutely clear to the eight year old that he was to do it at all costs in order to be as annoying as possible. </p><p>Eight year olds were a total pain. Why did he deserve this? Roger sighed. "Look, just don't repeat it to anyone else, alright?" </p><p>He got another look of confusion. That was probably as good as it was going to get.</p><p>"Whatever," he said. "Let's find your parents. Come on, okay?" He extended a hand.</p><p>To his dismay, the boy shrank back and shook his head vigorously. “No!” </p><p>It appeared as if the previous good humor was not enough to make him forget that Roger was a scary stranger.</p><p>“I’m not going to kill you,” Roger said, exasperated. “Or kidnap you. Or even try to punch you, even if I really feel like it right now. I’m trying to <em>help, </em>but you’re going to have to let me.”</p><p>“Hel...help?”</p><p>“Yes.” Roger felt like he was playing telephone, but across the Atlantic Ocean instead. “Me.” He pointed to himself. “Help, you.” He pointed at the boy. “Find parents.” He made the imaginary-tall-person gesture. </p><p>The boy furrowed his eyebrows for a moment before shaking his head again. “...Truth? No...lie?”</p><p>“I’m not a liar,” said Roger, feeling affronted by the very accusation. “Listen, if I’d wanted to kidnap you—”</p><p>The boy recoiled. “<em>Kidnap</em>?!”</p><p>“No!” Roger hissed, throwing a quick glance around them to make sure none of the passersby were about to call security on him, “no, I said, <em>if</em>! It’s a hypothetical! <em>No </em>kidnap. <em>No </em>kidnapping.” He made an ‘X’ sign with his arms. Seriously, what was with this kid and picking up the most inconvenient English words possible?</p><p>After what felt like an eternity, the boy nodded slowly. “Okay. No kidnap. Okay.”</p><p>Roger exhaled. “<em>Thank you.</em> Now, like I was saying—” </p><p>The boy was frowning. </p><p>Roger eyed him. “What is it this time?”</p><p>“Tennis?” The boy pointed at Roger’s back. </p><p>He looked back to realize that he still had his backpack strapped over his shoulder. The handle of the racket in it was poking out of the zipper, as if it was the hilt of a sword ready to be drawn. Normally, he would’ve travelled with all of his rackets in the racket bag, but his usual one had suffered an untimely burst at the seams just when they were about to travel. They’d had to compromise with his older, smaller racket bag, as well as shoving the lone extra into his black travel backpack. </p><p>“Yes,” he said lamely, because he had no idea what else to say. </p><p>The boy’s eyes were shining. <em>“Tenis, </em>me, <em>tenis!” </em></p><p>Oh?</p><p>“You like tennis?” he asked. “Is that so?”</p><p>He saw the boy keep bobbing his head up and down. <em>“Si!” </em>he chirped happily. </p><p>Well, that was nice. At least there was something for them to relate with.  “You play?” he asked, motioning a swing.</p><p>He got another energetic nod.</p><p>Encouraged by this positive response, Roger motioned a serve. “Come on, show me. Show me yours!”</p><p>Right hand down, left hand down with it—a lefty, Roger noticed—a few imaginary dribbles of the ball, then the right hand went up into the signature tennis trophy position, and left hand snapped back over the shoulder and then forwards again. </p><p>The boy executed a passable kick serve, Roger observed. Ragged around the edges, but that was reasonably forgiven for one who was eight years old. And, well, not exactly everyone was planning to go pro like he was. The kid probably enjoyed himself just fine without harboring intense dreams of Wimbledon. </p><p>The boy was grinning, as brilliant as the sun’s rays on cerulean waters, and Roger found it hard to deny that he was smiling too. </p><p>“Show me more,” he urged, making a <em>more </em>gesture with his hand. </p><p>And he saw it all—forehand, backhand, volley, slice. The boy seemed to forget that he was lost in the first place, and they lost themselves in replicating motion after motion. Roger himself was entranced—every stroke was, like the kick serve, ragged and unrefined, but the boy executed all of them with an honest sincerity that was difficult to ignore. There was an unmistakable maturity carved deep in here, something that Roger found amazing to behold in one so little. </p><p>It <em>was </em>amazing, he amended. It was so amazing, that for an instant, he forgot why he was talking to the boy in the first place. </p><p>Tennis was great, but parents were probably more important. </p><p>“Okay,” he said, as soon as the boy finished demonstrating the last air slice, “okay, so you’re good. Good at tennis, huh?”</p><p>The boy shrugged. He presumably hadn’t understood him. </p><p>“But, well, now we gotta find your parents. They’re probably really worried about you, the champ. It’s okay. We’ll find them, for sure.”</p><p>He extended a hand. </p><p>If he’d done this five minutes earlier, he would’ve been rebuffed with more suspicious, dark looks and possibly tears. But this was not five minutes earlier. This was the present, where the two of them had bonded—yes, bonded, however briefly—over the common rapport of tennis. </p><p>Maybe it was a good thing that his racket bag had broken after all, Roger mused. Otherwise, he would’ve never stuck the racket into his backpack in the first place, and he would’ve never known the boy had such an affinity for tennis.</p><p>Fate was funny like that.</p><p>At first, the boy looked at it with apprehension, but then, ever so cautiously, he took it. </p><p>He stuck to Roger like glue as they made their way to the gate attendant's desk.</p><p>—</p><p>"<em>Dio mios, Rafaelito!" </em>cried the mother, swooping forwards like a protective eagle and hugging the boy (Rafaelito, Roger surmised—he now realized he'd never asked for his name).</p><p>"Thank you," said the father to Roger, while the gate attendant politely melted away into the background, satisfied at reuniting one more wayward child in their endless workday, "we really were worried. What was your name?"</p><p>"<em>Que es su nombre?" </em>The mother chided the boy. "<em>Agradécelo!"</em></p><p>"R-roger," said Rafaelito, pointing at Roger, much to his own surprise. "Thank you!" He looked as satisfied as a cat. </p><p>"Wait," said Roger, scrunching his face up in confusion, "I never told you my name, how did you know—"</p><p>His words died on his lips as the boy pointed to the monogrammed "<em>Roger F.</em>" on his backpack. </p><p>The father chuckled. "Haha! I guess he has some brains after all. Roger, no? I hope our little brat," he tossed a small indulgent smile towards Rafaelito, even as he was being smothered by his mother, "wasn't too much trouble for you."</p><p>"No, not at all," said Roger, smiling. "I'm glad I could help."</p><p>Rafaelito disentangled himself from his mother long enough to run over to Roger. "For you," he said, grabbing Roger's hands and dropping something small into them.</p><p>He looked down, and couldn't help the warmth that spread in his heart and shone onto his face. "For me?"</p><p>"For you!" Rafaelito said, beaming like the sun. "Keep, good luck!</p><p>It was a miniature bull keychain, spun out of bright red yarn, its horns reared in challenge and its hooves posed for defense. It was a cheap thing, something that Roger had seen in one of the rare discount bins of the airport souvenir shop. He knew for a fact that it didn’t cost more than two francs, but somehow, as it laid there unassumingly on his palm, it managed to feel like the most precious gem in the world.</p><p>Funny, that the most insignificant things were the most important ones.</p><p>"Thank you," he told Rafaelito sincerely. "I'll keep it with me."</p><p>"Ah!" exclaimed the mother, who had come over and was now peering at the bull, "that's the keychain he'd run off to buy by himself and got lost for!"</p><p>"Was it?" The father shook his head. "<em>Ay, Rafaelito. </em>Some things aren't worth fighting for."</p><p>Rafaelito looked like he didn't understand the English they'd used for Roger's benefit, but he knew they were talking ill of him so he stuck his tongue out  anyway.</p><p>"Well, you deserve it as a prize," said the mother half-jokingly. "And now, goodness, we really must be going. Our flight is almost here. Goodbye, and thank you again!"</p><p>"See you," the father clapped Roger on the back before turning around.</p><p>"Bye!" chirruped Rafaelito, clinging onto his mother's arm but twisting around for one last look at Roger.</p><p>Roger grinned and raised a hand in farewell, still clutching the red bull keychain. "Bye!"</p><p>Once they were no more but specks in the distance, rushing towards their gate, he looked down again at the red bull keychain. It was fierce, but warm, he mused. Fitting that Rafaelito's gift would remind him of Rafaelito himself.</p><p>He started making his way back to the gate where his own parents were still probably reading the morning newspaper, waiting for him.</p><p>After all, he had his own flight to catch.</p><p>—</p><p>"...and that's why I have it," concluded Roger to rival and upstart Rafael Nadal, who had been eyeing the keychain dangling on Roger's racket bag none too subtly. </p><p>They’d ended up alone with each other in Wimbledon’s player lounge, with both of their teams busy with some business or the other, and all the other players eliminated. The final was tomorrow, and it was to be the two of them—no more, no less. Like how it always was. Roger had attempted to make small talk with Rafa, but for some reason, Rafa was oddly fixated upon the ragged and worn keychain, its threads fraying away at the ends, red fading into pink. </p><p>He’d ended up explaining the story from when he was thirteen and stupid and at an airport.</p><p>"Hm," said Rafa, eyebrows raised.</p><p>"What?" Roger said defensively. "Look, I get that it happened over ten years ago, so maybe it's kind of gross to be keeping a yarn animal around for so long, but unlike you, that kid was<em> adorable. </em>And it feels like a jerk move to throw away a gift."</p><p>"This keed," said Rafa, ignoring Roger like the arrogant asshole he was, "How...how old you say he was, again?”</p><p>“Eight,” said Roger irritably. </p><p>Rafa’s eyebrows rose even higher. “Eight,” he repeated. </p><p>“That’s what I said.” Surely Rafa's English wasn't <em>that </em>terrible.</p><p>“No, I, I know what you say,” said Rafa, as if reading his mind. He shifted a little in his seat, chewing his lip. “But, well, long time ago, I was also eight, no?”</p><p>Was he purposely trying to be as obtuse as possible? Roger wouldn’t put it past Rafa, the bastard. He wanted to trip Roger up, to make him off-kilter for the final tomorrow. “Yes, I know,” said Roger, trying his level best to keep the heat out of his voice. <em>Calm. Calm. You are a gentleman. A role model.</em> “We were all eight once.”</p><p>“I—” Rafa sighed loudly and shook his head vigorously. “No, <em>no</em>, that is not what I am trying to say! I want to say, to say, that, well, when I was eight I also like-ed bulls very much, no? Red ones.” </p><p><em>Wait. Did he just say bulls? Red bulls? </em>Something twinged inside of Roger. What it was, he could not say. </p><p>“It, it really drive Mamáand Papácrazy. Back then, if I see shop that sell bull, I run away to go see, no? Bring me lot of trouble. Well, lot of adventures too! But mostly trouble. Very bad.” Rafa smiled faintly. “Very much like the keed you talk about.”</p><p>And then, all at once, the frustration vanished and melted away, only to be instantly replaced by some inexplicable sensation that coiled and throbbed in his throat, like an unbearable tension that could not be relieved. Roger hated it—hated it, and how his voice wavered at the seams when he spoke. </p><p>“And?” he dared..</p><p>Rafa was still smiling. “And, well, I also remember, that I learn-ed how to say bad word in English from one time, no?”</p><p>“You—” Roger swallowed, hard, feeling his world breaking meter by meter. <em>“What?!”</em></p><p>“Yes,” said Rafa, seemingly blissfully unaware of Roger’s impending mental meltdown, “what is it...yes, I say ‘fuck’ for first time!” He looked very proud. “Mamá and Papá not happy, but well, what can you do, no?” </p><p>“Yeah,” said Roger weakly. “What can you do.”</p><p>It took a while for him to realize something was buzzing. Rafa shifted a little, slid his phone out of his shorts, and answered it. <em>“Hola?” </em></p><p>Roger barely listened to the series of rapid-fire Mallorquín exchanges that followed. His heart was pounding too loud in his ears. Perhaps he would get a physical check-up later—yes, that would be for the best. After all, the final was tomorrow, and that was the most important thing. Losing sight of it was not an option. </p><p>Right?</p><p>“Have to go,” he heard Rafa say, and his head snapped up just in time to see that Rafa had already finished the short phone conversation, and was now shouldering his racket bag. “The car just come. I gonna see you tomorrow, <em>Rogelio.</em>”</p><p>Roger hastily rose to his feet. He didn’t have to go yet, but it felt strange to be sitting by yourself while the only other person in the room was leaving. “See you,” he managed, his tongue still feeling thick and clumsy in his mouth. Maybe it'd disentangle itself if Rafa would just leave already.</p><p>But Rafa paused at the door, as if considering something, then seemed to make up his mind and turned back to face him. </p><p>“What is it?”</p><p>Rafa just shrugged and winked at him. “Tomorrow, I gonna show you all the strokes I know in tennis. I’m gonna come at you, seriously, with every single passion I have. So you better be ready. And…”</p><p>That stupid smile, full of neat white teeth. He hated it. </p><p>“I gonna be better than when I was eight, no?”</p><p>Of course he was. Of fucking course he was. </p><p>“Who knows,” said Roger, forcing himself to casually walk over to the exit where Rafa stood. He stopped in front of him, crossing his arms and staring at him straight in the eyes. “That’s not saying much. You were fucking awful back then.”</p><p>Rafa shrugged again. “Eh, is good thing you have the bull too, no? Good luck. You gonna need it.”</p><p>And that was that. Roger nodded at him, he nodded back, and he left. </p><p>No further words were needed. Roger closed his eyes and stood there, by himself in the player lounge, breathing deeply. Five seconds in, hold for five, and exhale for another five. Repeat. </p><p>In times like these, when his mind was a distracted bundle of lost threads, he found visualization exercises to be particularly helpful. </p><p>In, then out. First things first, he would get a physical exam and ask if it was normal to hear your heartbeat for extended periods of time after talking to your most hated rival. </p><p>In, then out. Then, he would go home and get some rest. Talk to Mirka, and relax for the night. </p><p>In, then out. And then...and then….</p><p>In. </p><p>He clenched his fist. He didn’t breath out. </p><p>And then, tomorrow, on the biggest stage there was, in front of every single person that ever mattered, he would crush Rafael Nadal once and for all. </p><p>Out.</p><p>When he went back to his spot on the couch, he tried, very hard, to ignore the tattered red bull and the loud beating of his traitorous heart.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey guys!<br/>It's a big bummer that there's literally no sports for the foreseeable future, but as always, safety comes first. I hope y'all are staying healthy out there &lt;3</p><p>Anyway, school is still extremely annoying in the form of zoom university, so maybe I'll just...disappear for another half a year again?? Jk. Who knows. Fedal still winning though, so I'll take what I can get in these times. </p><p>Well, we'll see haha. Again, best wishes to all of you!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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